


a kiss with a fist

by akacz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akacz/pseuds/akacz
Summary: Tracer gets under her skin, even when she's trying to go out of her way to be the one underneath Tracer's skin for a change. It is infuriating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Yo! I accidentally pasted the original rough draft with no edits in here, so the first... what, 20 of you saw it in it's raw, very different form! Sorry!)

Lena Oxton was not good at keeping secrets.

Widowmaker honestly wasn't sure if she tried to be.

She wanted to believe that Lena didn't. Then, she didn't have to imagine that Overwatch employed people who were simultaneously this bad at filling the role of being an undercover agent and yet somehow still alive despite this obvious incompetency.

Watching Lena Oxton now through the scope of her rifle, or more accurately watching the empty window and the pulled up blinds, and hoping she caught a glimpse of Lena through them, Widowmaker wondered, not for the first time, if there was any possibility that she was being set up to the greatest bluff in history and she was actually the one being trapped.

It had been too easy to follow her home.

To follow her paths to the local shops and bars.

To follow her even just taking a walk each afternoon to stretch her legs, as far as Widowmaker could tell. An Overwatch agent. Just taking a stroll in the open daylight. For no reason. Except because she wanted to.

Sure, her call sign was Tracer, but Widowmaker honestly hadn't expected it to be that easy to… Trace her.

Night by night, Widowmaker tested just how many levels of oblivion Lena Oxton lived on, the sniper gradually moving in closer and closer, until she had migrated from distant rooftops to the shingles on Lena's own flat with the nuisance inside none the wiser of Widowmaker's heels walking around while she went about her nightly routine.

Could Lena Oxton really be this unaware? Really?

She had to know. Widowmaker was going to force her to admit it. 

The following night, she dropped down only long enough to unlock the front door. No need to go inside – and certainly no desire, she had no interest in touching anything in that place that foolish girl protected with all the security of a public wifi connection. No, she merely left the door unlocked. A little sign that someone was here.

Lena Oxton didn't even notice. But Widowmaker watched her rush out the door without hesitating over it for second. The foolish girl assumed she had unlocked it herself at some point in her ironic mad dash to not miss an appointment she had overslept for.

If anything, she had done the girl a convenience.

A few days later, so as not to risk her cover regardless, she unlocked the door again, this time slipping inside briefly. Her nose wrinkled at the unappealing flat, specifically the unappealing odor of... She didn't want to know what, honestly. It was probably simply the smell of Lena Oxton. Something that resembled old laundry, and burnt out light bulbs, and she was going to stop questioning it before she knew more about it than she wanted to.

Slinking to the kitchen sink, she placed her fingers over the knob next to the tap, flicked it the slightest bit, and withdrew, leaving the barely twisted on faucet to run throughout the night.

This time, she was absolutely sure Lena Oxton couldn't be unaware that she was waking up to her plumbing steadily running; nevertheless, just to drive the point home, two nights later she allowed herself to pluck a glass out of Lena Oxton's cabinets, and let some water splash in the bottom of it. It would make it look like she'd actually drank some, coupled with her pressing her lips to the rim of the glass without swallowing (she did not trust the quality of anything that was nominally Lena Oxton's, not even the water in her pipes; it was probably a miracle she could breathe the air in here).

Setting the wet, faintly lipstick smudged glass next to the running sink, Widowmaker let herself out of the flat and grappled back up a bit the buildings to await the inevitable reaction.

She was thrilled to learn that morning that Lena Oxton did indeed know a few words of French. She was not thrilled, but also not surprised, to learn that she had the pronunciation of a drunken mule. She had not expected much better.

Naturally, Widowmaker let herself in again the very next night. This time, she thought her message was even more unmistakable, even for someone as simple as Lena Oxton. It was literally a message. Written in a fluid script on pad of paper left on the kitchen table, an uncapped ballpoint pen next to it in case there was any doubt that Widowmaker had perused Lena's things in order to obtain it.

Don't forget to lock your door. 

She waited.

No outburst. She paced on the shingles. Lena's pattern didn't change. She got up in the morning. She had her pathetic breakfast. She went about entertaining herself for a few hours. She left in the early afternoon to go for a job.

Unable to resist finding out what she'd have to do to provoke her even more, as soon as she was sure Lena was around the block, Widowmaker dropped in.

The door had been left unlocked.

This had to be a trap, like she had initially assumed about Tracer's entire façade. Nobody was this stupid. It was simply not possible. Easing the door shut in slow silence, Widowmaker raised her finger around the side of her rifle, and while keeping her grip tight but pointed towards the floor she began a quick sweep of the apartment.

An Overwatch agent would never call attention by setting a trap in the middle of the day, would they. They were as unpopular with the general population as any other criminal. Or was Tracer that stupid. How much of Tracer was an act, a farce; it was starting to set Widowmaker a hair on edge that she questioned it in the first place.

The front door opened. Someone softly kicked it shut with a dull wooden thud. Widowmaker turned and straightened stiffly, staring through the bedroom doorway and locking eyes directly with Tracer. She blinked. She locked eyes with Lena Oxton. The Overwatch agent herself took a second to stare in surprise and then saluted smartly with two fingers and rustled a plastic shopping bag.

"Fancy seein' you here, love, gimme a second and I'll lock the door just like you asked," she winked.

Widowmaker wondered what it would've felt like to feel infuriated at somebody. It was probably how people felt when dealing with… This person.

Striding in long, quick steps to close the distance between them, she raised her rifle dead at the middle of Lena's chest, red dot swallowed by a vivid blue glow.

Utterly undaunted, Lena grinned at her, shaking her shopping bag.

"Was wonderin' when ya were gonna show up an' make things all official like, y'know. Been stocking up for you!" She waited for Widowmaker's eyes to glance aside to the bag, then Lena blinked out of target range, immediately followed by blinking next to her side and leaning up against her shoulder, cocking her head with a grin that was way too familiar-like. 

Widowmaker glowered down at her. 

It was touching her. 

"Bough'cha your own toothbrush and everything. I know I tend to move a little fast, but if you want to move in, I mean, it's obvious you quite fancy me…"

Understanding flickered and flared, and barely thinking of it, Widowmaker swung the butt of her rifle back into Tracer's chin. She ducked, and Widowmaker turned hard with her follow-through, smashing the heavy end of the gun into a lamp and smashing it as it got sent splitting to the floor. 

Lifting the gun back up to prepare a new assault, she was just in time for Lena to dive forward and slide around her, the shopping bag dropped in a crumpled corner. Widowmaker spun, only to be surprised by a fist to the jaw. 

Lena Oxton winced as she pulled her arm back and cradled her hand. "Ow, ow, okay, ow..."

Widowmaker sneered.

"Who would ever fancy a fool like you," she retorted harshly, unable to imagine anyone she could be more unimpressed by.

Despite grimacing in pain over her red knuckles, Lena glanced up, something reckless glittering in her eyes.

"Told ya, love, pretty sure you do, always staring at me and leavin' me kisses," 

She sounded like she had more to say, but Widowmaker had already left. Her words were disgusting and nauseating. The idea of Lena Oxton — of Tracer from Overwatch — taking delight in having her sneak around her flat this whole time. Finding joy in seeing her mouth had touched something hers had once touched.

Widowmaker ground the idea out between her teeth and disappeared to wait for a proper battle where she would have the enjoyment of an audience seeing Tracer fall.

In her flat, Lena giggled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: will there be a chapter 3  
> A: yes

Widowmaker relaxed in bed.

She did not really… do anything, when at home. She simply… relaxed.

No shooting. No one shooting at her, no lighting up targets. Oh, yes, it made her feel the thrill of life when she did, but one couldn't live on the edge of elation forever. It ruined the precious moments if one had no falls in between to contrast them. Even the most exquisite things could become tedious, boring, dull and unpalatable if you were forced to endure them all the time.

So, Widowmaker relaxed.

She lay on her back, hands folded over her stomach, pillows inclining her neck slightly as she stared at the ceiling.

The accent wall was lavender. The carpet was cream. The ceiling was eggshell white. The lights were warm yellow. 

It was, as far as Widowmaker was aware, a very ordinary looking flat, and that was precisely the point. The best way for Talon to blend in was to not try to hide anything, to house their operatives in an ordinary complex in a little corner of an ordinary city. Besides, the surveillance and security was better than –

"Hi, love!"

Widowmaker sighed through her nose.

Tracer pouted grumpily at this lackluster reply, shoulders slumping forward.

This, Widowmaker managed a hint of a curling smirk at.

"You are much more predictable than you think, rat," Widowmaker rolled off the words at her in a lazy lull. 

"C'mon, couldn't you at least pretend to be surprised," the frustrated girl insisted, and Widowmaker wondered once again if she was serious about this playful idiot gimmick. It was disturbing how easily she bounced back and forth between competent and stupid. Probably the only unpredictable thing about her was her chance of doing something incredibly idiotic, not that Widowmaker was going to tell her enemy what her own advantage was.

"Why would I do that?" Widowmaker asked, keeping her reclined poise on the bed. She would give Tracer no reason to feel provoked.

It worked far too easily. Slowly lowering her pistols but keeping her grip on them, Tracer paused, shrugged. "'Cause. Why would you be expecting me? I'm in your bedroom! That's not weird?!"

"I broke into yours, you broke into mine. A stunningly creative move. I shall add plagiarism to your list of talents."

Tracer stepped forward, insulted indignation prompting her to provoke Widowmaker back.

Perfect.

Before she could, Widowmaker moved swiftly, raising her crossed leg from where she'd been lying still and swung her foot hard at the blaster in Tracer's hand, kicking it flying out of the fool's lax grip. A spray of shots from the second blaster skimmed over her back as she rolled off the bed. Gathering her feet under her, she lunged for Tracer's waist, arm outstretched to fight her on the floor for control of the remaining blaster. They struggled back and forth for a few seconds, until Widowmaker went the more efficient route of lifting their hands up slamming the grip of the weapon intro Tracer's wrist.

The girl's fingers clenched reflexively in pain, and Widowmaker wrenched it out of her hands, pouncing up again and standing over her with it pointed at the little pest.

"Now who's being uncreative," Tracer piped up.

Widowmaker maintained her position, not moving a muscle.

Widowmaker did not care about creativity. Widowmaker cared about success. It was disappointing that Tracer — she had given up on distinguishing Lena Oxton from Tracer, it was the only concession she would make, it had been a mistake, an underestimation — that Tracer did not understand that just because she was easily preyed on by manipulation did not mean everyone else was.

"They tell me I used to be a dancer," Widowmaker suddenly hissed.

"Uh," Tracer cocked an eyebrow.

"Let us see if you can dance, too, chérie."

It wasn't the same as killing someone, but Widowmaker suspected this was what people meant by enjoying the little things in life as she watched Tracer's eyes go wide. The nuisance scrambled over for the other blaster on the floor while shots fired in rapid succession at her heels, always just shy of annihilating her tendons and stopping her from ever running again. Widowmaker clucked her tongue disapprovingly and a flash of pulses had Tracer dropping the recovered gun and yelping in pain. 

Abandoning hope of reclaiming the blaster, Tracer was chased out of the bedroom by yet another round of shots, Widowmaker following after her at a casual pace, only moving enough to keep her in eyesight and keep up the ammunition.

"This ain't fair!"

"Ma cherie, this is war."

Tracer dashed into the kitchen, throwing open cabinet doors to make a barrier between her and the blaster shots still chasing her around the flat. Rattled dishes started sliding out of place and rather than do anything helpful about it, Tracer shoved them to the floor with a crash, vaguely thinking maybe the slew of broken plates would prevent Widowmaker from getting too close again after her. 

"What happened to all's fair in love and war!"

"That is not what that means."

"A girl can hope!"

Widowmaker watched as Tracer vaulted over the settee and crouched. She assumed she was waiting for a pause in the firing to find a new source of cover to run to. Widowmaker wondered how long it would take her to catch on that she had already stopped firing at her.

A head of tousled brown hair turned and peeked out over her shoulder and the back of the settee at Widowmaker. Widowmaker smiled back with her lips pressed together.

"Would you like me to shoot?"

"No no, that's fine. No need." Tracer slowly stood, never taking her eyes off of Widowmaker's. It was the first exercise in caution Widowmaker had seen. Perhaps they had trained her before releasing her into the field after all. "Just curious."

Widowmaker slowly lowered the blaster to her side, also never dropping her gaze from Tracer's.

"When I kill you, I want to make sure I'm not the only one who gets to enjoy it." She walked forward, eyes boring into Lena Oxton, unarmed and standing in the middle of her flat too blindsided by good faith and optimism to bother using her own powers to take advantage of it.

"If I give this back to you, I assume you can let yourself out the way you came in?"

Tracer glanced at the blaster being held out her, then back up to Widowmaker's face. A muscle twitched tightly in her cheek just before Tracer spoke, but she was not quick enough to speak over her and shut her up.

"Can I get a kiss before I go?"

Widowmaker flung the blaster at her with all her might and Tracer caught it, leaving in a flash of faint blue light, electric odor, and fading laughter that Widowmaker longed to never hear again. Forget returning the other blaster from the floor of her bedroom. She was going to incinerate it.


End file.
